


Dares

by jadey36



Series: Housework [5]
Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadey36/pseuds/jadey36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guy is bored.  Robin has a plan, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dares

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Robin Hood belongs to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended. All rights reserved. The characters of Robin Hood belong to legend; I'm just amusing myself with them.

“Bored now!” Guy flings Robin’s torn shirt onto the floor, needle and thread still attached.

Robin sets down his wine, stretches languidly in the fireside chair. “I thought you liked sewing.”

“I said I like the look of neat stitches, not that I like sewing.”

“Well, we agreed I would stick to the outlaw stuff and you would do the housework. You were the one who scared off all the servants, after all.”

With a surly, “Fuck it!” Guy kicks the offending shirt across the floor.

Robin rests his head against the back of the chair, weary after a long day’s thieving and showing off to all and sundry. “You need to get out more.”

“I do not need to get out more. I just need...”

“What?”

“Some excitement. The sort that’ll help me forget about the housework for a bit.”

“Like what?” Robin asks breaking into a yawn. If Guy is going to ask him for a roll in the hay, Robin thinks it unlikely he’ll be able to rise to the occasion tonight.

“I don’t know.” Guy glances at a locked cupboard in the corner of the hall. “Can I have my sword back?”

“No,” Robin says, jerking upright. “Definitely, absolutely, no.”

“Not even to swish around a bit and look menacing? I promise I won’t skewer anyone.”

“N...O...spells no.”

Guy leaps out of his chair, snatches up the torn shirt and advances on Robin, needle outstretched.

Robin laughs and grabs his sword with a gleeful, “I think you’ll find mine’s bigger than yours.”

“This needle is blunt,” Guy huffs, wagging it in Robin’s face. He plonks down in his chair, lays the torn shirt on his lap and resumes sewing, tongue tip poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Sorry,” Robin mumbles. He drops his sword to the floor with a clatter.

Several minutes of strained silence – broken only by the odd expletive from Guy – go by. Robin drinks and thinks.

Three goblets of wine later, he has a plan – of sorts.

 

“Dares.”

Guy looks up from his sewing. “Pardon?”

“How about,” Robin says, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously, “a game of dares to inject a bit of spice into your daily routine?”

“What sort of dares?” Guy knows all about Robin and his childish pranks. Only two weeks ago, he’d spent the entire afternoon walking around Nottingham market with a target board painted on the backside of his leather trousers.

“Wait here.” Robin strides towards the stairs, his earlier weariness forgotten.

 

One sewed shirt, a pair of polished boots and several paired-up balls of socks later – courtesy of an _I-don’t-like-housework_ Guy – a grinning Robin makes his way back downstairs. He crouches at Guy’s feet.

“What is it?” Guy asks. He scowls as a blob of soothing balm he’s busily rubbing into his roughened hands plops onto the floor.

“This!” Robin whips a pair of lacy pink knickers from behind his back.

“More coloureds,” Guy grumbles.

“No, you dolt.” Robin waves the knickers in front of Guy’s face. “For our game of dares.”

“What do you mean?”

Guy eyes the flimsy strip of pink satin currently flicking to-and-fro. He shakes his head. Robin is so _not_ going to hypnotise him again. Even the village idiot knew that a man wearing leather and a chicken do not man-sized leather chickens make.

“What I mean,” Robin patiently explains, “is that I dare you to wear these when you go to the market tomorrow.”

“And what do I get in return?” Guy asks, eyeing the knickers and wondering whom Robin stole them from.

“You get my undivided attention.” Robin stands, pointedly massages his balls. “And you get to dare me in return.”

Guy snatches the knickers from Robin’s hand, a grin spreading from ear to ear. He thinks he might just enjoy this particular game.

 

Robin laughs all the way to Nottingham, tickled by the way Guy fidgets in his saddle. He laughs even more when he relieves Guy of his horse, watching as Guy wanders around the market, a gloved hand surreptitiously tweaking the backside of his leather trousers between purchases. Robin is having no trouble imagining the overstretched lacy knickers wedged in Guy’s cleft. In fact, while picturing this, Robin finds his hand leaping towards his own underpants and wishes Guy would hurry up with the shopping so they can get home.

Guy, meanwhile, knows that Robin is shadowing his every move. What’s more, he knows that Robin will be fantasising about the knickers Guy is wearing, the way the tiny strip of pink is barely holding Guy’s balls in place. Despite the discomfort, Guy has to say he’s getting quite a kick out of wearing women’s knickers. In fact, he’s already imagining what will happen when they get home and he strips off his leathers so he’s standing in nothing but the flimsy piece of underwear.

Pressing between several large baskets of cabbages, pretending to inspect them for freshness, Guy shoves a hand down the front of his leathers for a quick rub, a delicious foretaste of what’s to come.

“You buying?” the cabbage seller asks.

“Piss off,” Guy snarls. He wishes, for the hundredth time, that he had his trusty sword.

Fortunately, the exchange cools his rising ardour enough for Guy to safely emerge from between the cabbages and make for his horse, his purchases done for the day.

Robin is as good as his word, and, once they are back behind the closed doors of Locksley, Guy gets Robin’s undivided attention, resulting in a spunk-stained pair of lacy pink knickers and a reminder that it’s Guy’s turn to dare next.

 

“Wear these.” Guy tosses the pink knickers at Robin’s head.

Unlike Guy, Robin’s not averse to wearing soiled undergarments: years living in the forest can do that to a man. “You could have at least washed them,” he says, throwing his underpants into the dirty washing corner.

“Ha, ha, very funny. Put them on.”

“I can’t decide what’s worse,” Robin says, pulling the knickers this way and that in an effort to get halfway comfortable, “the crusty crotch or the itchy lacy bits round the legs.”

“Let’s see you win the silver arrow now, Robin Hood,” Guy says, his lips twitching in amusement.

_Shit_. Robin had forgotten about the Nottingham Fayre and the silver arrow contest.

 

Guy grins all the way to Nottingham, tickled by the way Robin fidgets in his saddle. He grins even more when he relieves Robin of his horse, watching as Robin surreptitiously tweaks the backside of his bum-laced breeches in between firing arrows at the target board. 

Robin gets a disgusting third place. Guy gets a disgusting hard-on. They don’t make it all the way back to Locksley this time but, instead, sneak into a disused storeroom in the castle where Guy helps Robin further despoil the narrow-crotched lacy pink knickers.

 

Robin grins. “My turn.”

Guy returns the grin, drinks yet another goblet of watered down wine. Then, fit to bursting, he slips one leg and then the other into the decidedly worse for wear pink knickers. They quickly turn a darker shade of pink, much to Robin’s delight. Guy’s happy too, as it gives him a chance to try out his new floor mop. Moreover, the wet knickers won’t show up underneath his black leathers.

This time, Robin slips between the baskets of cabbages, shoving a hand down the front of his breeches for a quick rub, a delicious foretaste of what’s to come.

The two men decide that they don’t have the willpower to reach the castle, let alone Locksley, so, slipping a few coins to the bloody-aproned butcher, Robin and Guy make out in a meaty-smelling storeroom.

When they get home, Guy quickly hides the knickers lest Robin tries to wash them. Not that Robin is likely to wash them, filthy bugger that he is, but Guy doesn’t want to take any chances. After all, it’s his turn to dare next.

 

“Stand still!”

“You try standing still in a pair of crusty, damp, lace-trimmed knickers,” Robin snaps. “Whose idea was this anyway?”

“Yours. Now keep going or I’ll break into that cupboard.”

Robin can tell Guy is deadly serious and opens his legs a little wider. Using his free hand, he stretches the knickers away from his skin.

“It’s not as if,” Guy says, his breath hitching between words, “we haven’t done this before.”

“Not in a pair of miniscule knickers we haven’t,” Robin points out.

Guy simply grins as Robin’s hand continues to work, until, with a relieved groan, he shoots his load between the outlaw’s open thighs. Inevitably, the thin strip of satin doesn’t catch everything and Guy hurriedly grabs his mop while, at the same time, snatching up Robin’s breeches. “Put them on, quickly. There’s only so much muck I’m prepared to get on my clean floors.”

Robin steps into his breeches.

“You know what’s coming next,” Guy says with a smirk.

Robin nods and wishes, for the first time in his life, that he wore black leather trousers. “Do I really have to leave the house?” he asks, glancing down at his breeches and wondering if it might be in his best interest to accidentally on purpose fall into Locksley pond.

“Not much of a dare if you don’t,” Guy says, shaking off the final drips. “And if you’re thinking of stopping by the pond, think again.”

Robin glumly realises that, very occasionally, Guy of Gisborne is smarter than he looks.

 

It is village drop-offs today.

Despite the fierce summer sunshine, Robin keeps his thick woollen cloak firmly clasped at the neck, perfectly concealing the upper two thirds of his body. Guy watches from the trees and snorts in amusement. Several peasants ask Robin if he’ll help them with this or that – a wheel that needs fixing, a boy who wants some bow practice. “No time today,” Robin says, sprinting towards his waiting horse.

With no cabbages, disused storerooms or butchers’ shops to hand, today, the forest has to suffice.

Needs satisfied, Robin is happily daydreaming about his next dare and the versatility of forest leaves, when the jingle of harnesses and raised voices alerts him and Guy to the fact they are about to have unwelcome company. Hastily buckling their trouser belts, the two men leap into their saddles and spur their horses for home.

 

Once safely back at Locksley, Guy decides enough is enough, and, following the label’s instructions – _wash delicates separately -_ he washes the now not-so-pink knickers.

Later that day, Robin swings through an upstairs window and returns them to their former owner – Marian of Knighton.

 

“Now what?” Guy asks.

Robin whips an embroidered pink bra from behind his back.

Guy grins. “I accept.”

The game, it seems, is still on.


End file.
